


Atripta

by CarminaVulcana



Series: Broken Unbroken [3]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 05:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18749710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Vaidehi's existence through the years and her stormy relationship with her husband. Some emotions cannot be named and some relationships run deep even when they have no emotional weight. Or do they?  Set in the Silences and Insanities universe.





	Atripta

The seasons in Mahishmati were beautiful. Vaidehi eagerly waited for the spring every year. There were very few things about her marriage that she liked. The spring of her marital home was one of them.

Even back home, in the hill kingdom of Naveenapuram, she had had a small garden of her own where she made things come alive. While the rest of the earth groaned with effort to produce even lone, wild flowers, she grew rows upon rows of roses and dahlias in her little sanctuary.

After her marriage to Bhallaladeva-- if one could call it a marriage, that is—she had briefly mourned the loss of her garden as well. Not to mention, her mother, Queen Sarada had made an unconvincing promise that the garden would be tended to by someone or the other in her absence.

Vaidehi had never gone back to her home after marriage. Consequently, she had no way of knowing if her mother had made good on her promise.

But it did not matter either.

Her life was here now. And even though it was a sad, miserable life, there were moments of beauty in it. For one, she had recently started taking music lessons from Pandit Jagamohan. The old teacher had also taught the two princes when they had been younger.

“The king was a fine percussionist,” he said one afternoon. “And he had such a precise sense of rhythm that he harmonized the din of his mridangam with _vakyan_ that replicated the sounds of nature, of fearsome wild creatures like elephants and lions.”

Vaidehi had never heard her husband play or sing. But if the old teacher’s words were anything to go by, then he would appreciate her efforts. Or so she hoped.

One time, Bhallaladeva came to her bedroom quite late. He looked upset and frustrated. In a single, perceptive glance, Vaidehi deduced the reason for his anger.

Baahubali. It was always him. The blood and grime under Bhallaladeva’s nails and the specks of red on his face spoke of the unspeakable brutality he must have unleashed upon his hapless prisoner.

But she didn’t say anything. While he washed in the bathing chamber, she brought out the tanpura and gently strummed the notes of Ragam Kamavardhini, literally, the raga of increasing desire.

Vaidehi did not like sex with her husband but since she knew it was inevitable, she did everything in her power to lessen its unpleasantness.

She hoped the notes of the music would calm him down and inspire him to proceed gently this night, to not hit her during their coupling.

She wasn’t disappointed.

When he came to her bed, he noticed the flowers in her hair.

“From where did you get these flowers?” he asked.

“I… I asked a dasi to get them for me,” she answered.

“They look beautiful,” he said. “You look beautiful tonight.”

For several moments, nothing more was said. Vaidehi kept playing the aaroham and the avroham of the ragam. But her husband wanted more.

“Go on, sing it for me,” he said at last.

“Okay,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Ni dha ni sa… Ma pa dha ni… Sa re sa ni… Sa sa sa… Ni dha ni sa…” Her eyes closed of their own volition. And for the next half hour, she cast a spell that drew Bhallaladeva’s troubled soul into its mysterious and alluring peace.

He let her notes wash over him, allowing him to forget the futility of his life and his helplessness in the face of his unhappy days. Nothing brought him joy. Neither sex with his wife nor the revenge he constantly sought from his imprisoned brother. The weight of Mahishmati’s crown felt heavy and uncomfortable on his skull. And yet, he did not wish to part with it. The brokenness of his existence killed him each day and he would have perhaps gone mad within the space of a few years had he not had Baahubali under his absolute power.

There was a strange solace in having him brought so low.

But sometimes, even that didn’t give him the calm he so desperately needed. Today, however, Vaidehi’s music would do that for him.

And so, he listened.

Her chosen song in the raga was about the aggressive love between Kaal Bhairava and Kaali. Her melody was urgent in its need to protect and destroy and cleanse. Her fingers played the strings frantically as if exorcising the demon of anger from her husband’s heart.

At last, she sang the final sargam of the ragam.

“Why didn’t I know you could sing so beautifully?” he asked almost a whole minute after she had stopped singing.

“You never asked,” she answered, her voice soft and tired after its exertion.

“That, is indeed my fault,” Bhalla agreed. “Did you learn this when you were a little girl?”

“Yes and no.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I heard it once as a child,” she said. “I was maybe eight years old. Or maybe I was nine. Sarangini Devi was my dance instructor. She taught me many things but never really the ragams of Shringara. One time, I heard her practice in her rooms. She didn’t realize I was listening at the door. And this is what she was singing. I recently started studying music under Pandit Jagamohan as you know. I asked him to teach me this ragam. He was happy to do so.”

“He did a good thing,” Bhalla said. “I must offer him a reward. Perhaps a pouch of gold and a new, custom-made veena.”

“He will like that.”

“I am tired now. I think I should retire to my rooms.”

Usually, this announcement would send the queen giddy with relief. But for some peculiar reason that was unfathomable to her, she wanted Bhalla to stay the night with her.

“Why don’t you sleep here tonight?” she asked, not daring to hope for anything. She was surprised at her own boldness and suddenly wished she had allowed him to leave while she had had the chance. But it was too late now.

“Are you sure?” he asked her, which was strange, because he never asked her anything when he wanted something. She was his to do with as he pleased. It was more than a little odd that he genuinely felt something akin to love for her that night.

“I… I am sure,” she said. Her voice trembled a little, but he didn’t notice.

*****

Bhallaladeva’s soft snores filled the room. He was asleep at last.

Vaidehi lay naked beneath the sheets, her body still warm and tingly from lovemaking.

Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She had never thought she would experience this.

This bliss, this pleasure, this wonderfully simple feeling of joining with her husband and reaching heights of sensation she hadn’t even known existed.

Tentatively, she turned her head to look at his sleeping form.

He looked young and guileless.

Why had he never been this way with her before? Why had he chosen to abuse her all these years?

And was this the start of something new? Or would he go back to his old ways again?

Vaidehi didn’t know but briefly, she did wonder if she could use music to sway his attention away from the prisoner and draw him closer to herself. Maybe, in it, there would be respite for them all.

*****

The warm afternoon sun felt good on her belly.

Praniti, Vaidehi’s personal attendant and bodyguard, sat at the queen’s feet, painting henna patterns on her legs. Her fingers were old and somewhat hardened by years of labor. Her skin was dark and reddened. Hard callouses covered the bottoms of her toes. But her eyes danced with humor and good-natured youthfulness.

As she added a flourish to an elaborate peacock motif, she looked up to see the queen who was intently staring out of the window.

“My Queen, why are you so preoccupied with the prisoner’s plight?” she said. “You have been here a long time. You should be used to it by now.”

Vaidehi did not say anything at first.

But then she answered.

“Do you think the prisoner is used to it?” She asked. “How difficult these winters must be for him. His wounds must throb in the cold. He must want a cup of something hot when his throat aches due to the chill. How does he bear it? I cannot bear to look at him. He must reek. And he must be hungry. How long has it been since he was spoken to? Does he ever say anything besides the sounds of agony my husband forces out of him? Does he even remember how to speak?”

“He has Katappa,” Praniti answered. “And that is all he can hope for. Come, let us paint henna on your belly. It is good for the baby.”

Over the next hour, Praniti created a forest scene on Vaidehi’s belly-- A lion and a goat, an elephant and a tiger, a cheetah and a pair of neelgai, several squirrels, and a little snake; all sharing space around a watering hole.

“May your son be the harbinger of unity and tolerance, like the rains that bring the hunters and the hunted together to quench their thirst.”

Praniti genuinely felt bad for the queen. But she had no assurances to give. And she could not tell her about her own history with Baahubali. No one could ever know of that.

_“Do not leave me here,” she requested the young prince. “I have no place else to go. They will not let me stay a minute longer once you have left.”_

_Amarendra Baahubali, the young prince of Mahishmati was troubled. He had rescued this woman from a terrible fate. She had been on her way to the slave market in Kanrada. The wealthy moneylenders from her village had spared no expense during her dedication to the Goddess Renuka. It had taken care of her family’s financial troubles but in the process, she had been reduced to the property of the Goddess—or as it truly was, the property of the men who controlled the temple of the Goddess._

_Mercifully, this custom was not followed in Mahishmati and the moment Baahubali had seen the half-naked woman stumbling behind the cart of her masters, he had known something was wrong._

_“Where are you taking this woman?” he had demanded._

_“How does it matter to you?” the moneylender’s goons had closed in on him._

_“She does not wish to go. You have no right to take any individual anywhere without their consent.”_

_“She is no individual. She is a jogin.”_

_“Then she should be at her hermitage. Why is she tied to your wagon like cattle?”_

_“Her hermitage is at the slave market,” one of the other men guffawed loudly._

_“I cannot allow you to take her away. As the younger prince of Mahishmati, I cannot allow it.”_

_He had been alone and outnumbered and yet, he had taken a stand for her._

_But thanks to the greed of the moneylender, bloodshed had been prevented. He had bought her freedom with eight pieces of gold._

_“I am sorry you had to experience that again,” he had said later as they made their way to the Mahishmati palace._

_“Experience what, my lord?” she had asked timidly._

_“Being bought,” Baahubali had answered. “I did not wish to fight if it could be avoided. Many of the men in that moneylender’s party were merely servants doing the bidding of their master. It would have been wrong to kill them but more than that, it would have served no purpose.”_

_“Would you have killed if you had no other option?” she had dared to ask._

_“I would have,” he had responded without hesitation. “But there is a better way to end this barbarism.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“The only route to Kanrada is through Mahishmati. I will have Rajmata Sivagami Devi pass a law that will forbid the trading, owning, and transporting of slaves throughout the territory under the Sarvasteera empire. That would include Mahishmati, our vassal kingdoms, and all the friendly semi-autonomous kingdoms that consider us their protectors.”_

_“The slave traders will not like it. Backlash will be swift and bloody.”_

_“And we will deal with it. Don’t worry. Where are you from?”_

_“I am from Devagiri.”_

_“Then maybe we should make a detour and you can return home. Surely your family would be happy to have you back.”_

_“You are so very naïve, dear sir.”_

That’s when she had made her request. And he had been unable to say no after listening to how she had been sold by some of her own family members.

Praniti continued to draw the henna tattoo on the queen’s distended skin but her mind was elsewhere. She vividly remembered her first meeting with the Rajmata and how she had praised Baahubali for his morality and courage. With her blessings, he had trained her to be a warrior and eventually, she had been appointed the personal bodyguard of the Queen Mother.

Sivagami Devi had been dead for many years now. And Baahubali was now among the wretched of Mahishmati. But that one act of kindness from so many years ago was still alive in Praniti’s heart.

“Have you ever considered helping out the prisoner?” she ventured cautiously. “He never has enough to eat. But the servants are too afraid to help him in any way. They fear they will be beaten if they give him even an extra cup of water.”

“Are you afraid too?” Vaidehi asked, reclining on the day bed. “Just a little of your henna is left. When you go out to get more, perhaps you can run an errand for me.”

Ten minutes later, Praniti made her way to the palace kitchens. The queen was hungry and needed to eat even though it wasn’t officially mealtime yet. But because she was pregnant, she was allowed to break protocol.

The head cook gave Praniti an entire tray of food enough for four people. It included wholesome foods like bread, fruit, nuts, a salad, and a glass of milk.

The old attendant bowed and carried the food to the Queen but not before making a stop.

She watched from the shadows.

In a few minutes, the guards would leave for lunch. The next set of guards would take at least three to four minutes to arrive. She would have to be quick!

As soon as the guards left, she took her chance and rushed towards the cage as noiselessly as possible. She quietly dropped some bread and fruit in the cage and ran back before anyone could see her.

Later, she wondered if she had met his eyes, but she couldn’t be sure. In any event, it did not matter. Baahubali did not register the servant’s face and she didn’t stop to say anything to him.

However, from the far corner of the cage, he saw Queen Vaidehi standing at her window, looking down at him, as if silently apologizing for a crime she had neither committed nor condoned.

*****

He sat beside her while she knitted. As the shadows grew and the oil in her lamp started to diminish, he wordlessly stood up and went to fetch more. Moments later, a bright glow filled the little bedroom.

She smiled at him, grateful for these little gestures that had come to mean so much to her during her pregnancy.

“How do you feel tonight?” he asked her.

“I feel fine,” she said. “A little restless but I suppose it is normal. The physician says expecting mothers often have a lot of energy during the intermediate months.”

“I don’t understand it, but the physician is probably right. He wouldn’t be much of a physician if he wasn’t.”

Then he went out and summoned a courtesan.

“Jaiwanti? What do you want with her at this late hour?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he answered. “I would normally have it from you but since your condition is delicate, I must exercise restraint.

No more was said.

Vaidehi burned, though she wasn’t sure why. A part of her was upset that he would mindlessly have sex with a courtesan but another part of her was flattered. He actually cared about her and their child. The reason why he stared at her belly all the time was because he loved the little life growing inside her.

But then, a third little voice in her mind reminded her of how she had come to Mahishmati.

The face of her dead father swam in front of her eyes. The image of her mother, humiliated and grief-stricken, haunted her.

And then she remembered the agony of her first coupling, whose details were still fuzzy in her head.

She only half saw the mechanical way in which Bhalla sated himself with the courtesan. She didn’t register the color of her dress or the unceremonious way in which he hiked up her skirt and took her; bent at the waist while she clutched her ankles for support.

Through a haze of tears, Vaidehi closed her eyes and forced herself to find refuge in sleep.

*****

Birth was painful. It was the understatement of the century.

She screamed in pain and in frustration as the crown of the baby remained stubbornly stuck between the walls of her channel.

“Please, I… I… am so tired,” she managed to gasp.

Praniti wiped her sweat-soaked face with a cloth yet again.

“Just try once more, Maharani,” the midwife insisted urgently. “We do not have a lot of time. This will be over within the hour if you try a little harder.”

Tears leaked out of her clenched eyes and she bit back a cry as rips and tears made themselves known down there. But mercifully, with a final push, the baby came out.

“It is a little prince, Maharani,” the midwife laughed in relief. “You did so well. Maharaj will be ecstatic.”

Vaidehi let out a huge sigh and allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. The loud wails of her son serenaded her as she lost consciousness.

When she came to, she was back in her bedroom.

Her husband was sitting in an easy chair with the baby in his arms. He did not realize she was awake.

“Bhadra, my sun and my stars,” he cooed into the baby’s ears. “I thought I had everything when I was crowned king of Mahishmati. But now I know better.”

Vaidehi marveled at her husband’s tone. Bhalla was capable of such a gentle manner? Perhaps hell was starting to freeze over.

He chuckled fondly and kissed the sleeping child’s head.

“People will tell you terrible things about me, my son,” he continued. “Even your mother will poison you against me. I have no doubt about that. But I am a great king. And greatness demands sacrifices. All of this, everything I have, everything I have acquired through all my strength and cunning—it will all be yours. I love you so much. I never believed she would give me something so precious and wonderful. But here you are; my hope and my greatest joy.”

Vaidehi kept her eyes closed and listened as he spoke his heart out to his son. After a while, he placed the infant in his cot and retired to his own room.

*****

At four years of age, Bhadra was a sweet and intelligent boy.

Every morning, he woke up and greeted his parents before being whisked away for lessons in Sanskrit, arithmetic, and riding. He was already well-versed in the first two parts of Panini’s Ashtadhyayi. And soon, he would also recite the Markandeya Purana from memory. In arithmetic, he enjoyed setting multiplication tables to melody. They were so much easier to remember that way.

It was good that he began his day with lessons, the guru often said. According to him, the brain worked faster and retained more in the early hours of the day.

But one day, his father woke him up even earlier than usual.

“Where is mother,” the little boy asked.

“She is very ill,” Bhalla answered, not unkindly. “You cannot see her today. Maybe tomorrow.”

Bhadra did not understand; but what could he say? He did not wish to get his father angry. What if he flew into a rage and hit him like he often did to the man in the cage.

He had witnessed that a few times and it had always frightened him. Sometimes, he was so scared that he ran and hid himself in his mother’s room. She held him close while he shook and asked questions she never had the answers to.

Eventually, he had come to accept that the man in the cage was bad. That was the reason for his punishment. And if Bhadra never made trouble, he would never be beaten like the prisoner.

And so, like a good child, he spent the day playing with the prime minister. The Amatya entertained him with stories from the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, he played six games of Chaupar with him, and he also taught him the first few moves in chess. Bhadra wondered guiltily if it was a good thing mother was ill. Maybe if she fell ill more often, he would have more fun-filled days like this one.

Meanwhile, in the queen’s bedroom, the atmosphere was tense.

The midwife held the queen’s legs open while a trainee healer pried the child out.

The baby was already dead. The king looked at the disheveled, tortured face of the queen and turned away in disgust.

“What do you wish us to do with the corpse, milord” the midwife asked, afraid of what he might say.

“Throw it in the trash for all I care,” he growled. “Weaklings and fools. I am surrounded by incompetence.”

It was hard to tell if this was the king’s way of dealing with tragedy or if he was genuinely repulsed by the supposed weakness of his wife.

If it was indeed the latter, it was sad, thought the midwife. But she didn’t have the luxury to dwell on her thoughts. There were more pressing concerns at hand.

The queen was saying something to her.

“Give me… gi… give.. give me my baby,” Vaidehi rasped. Her voice was a low, harsh gurgle.

“But… but she is not…” the midwife tried to say but one glance from Praniti was enough to stop her in her tracks.

A minute later, the corpse of the baby girl was placed in Vaidehi’s arms.

For a long moment, the queen just stared at the child.

“Amuktha…” she whispered. “Liberated. My little daughter. Already free.”

And then, she burst into sobs.

The queen wept and wept and wept. She cried like she hadn’t cried in years and her sorrow was so palpable that all the servants left the room out of respect. Some things were too private to witness, and they understood that a poor woman’s misery was one of them. Losing a child was hard. It was perhaps the hardest thing in the whole world.

A few hours later, Praniti took the corpse away and buried her on the banks of Jeevenadhi. She marked the spot with a set of six stones arranged loosely in the shape of the Hurana dynasty’s shield.

*****

“I wish I had words of comfort for you,” Bhalla said stiffly. “But I cannot understand what you are going through. You can have as much time as you need to deal with this.”

Vaidehi continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Won’t you say something?” he asked, exasperated at her lack of response, the blank expression in her eyes as she continued to mope in bed.

“Deal with this?” she murmured. “Deal with what?”

“Deal with... with… the dead… the… that…” Bhallaladeva fumbled to find the right words.

“Deal with our daughter’s death,” she said bitterly and turned to look at him. “Have the decency to at least say her name, you monster.”

“Monster? Your womb killed her, and I am the monster?” Bhalla laughed a high, cruel laugh.

“My womb did not kill her,” she said acidly. “Your karma did. You killed your brother’s son. His ill wishes have killed our daughter. And it is your fault. All YOUR fault. YOUR DAMN FAULT….” Vaidehi shouted at Bhallaladeva. She blamed him squarely for her previous two miscarriages as well. But the birth of a dead baby had finally broken the camel’s back.

“You are the curse,” she ground out. “You have eaten the souls of my children.”

_Smack!_

He struck her across the face.

“That’s all you can do,” she spat at him. Her blood-tinged spittle fell on the pristine whit bedsheet, staining it a dull red.

“That’s what bitches like you deserve,” he sneered. “I was a fool to think otherwise.”

That night, Vaidehi bled yet again from a brutal assault upon her person. But now she was accustomed to it. And so, her silence held her mind safe while her husband held her body hostage.


End file.
